"Well, I did it, Henry. I sent him away," Alex informed the wrinkled photograph in her hand. "Or drove him away. Or he walked away. I guess it depends on how you look at things, but . . . shit, this is my house again, isn't it? I get to decide the narrative."

The narrative should have been a familiar one: a grieving wife, sitting with her legs splayed out on the kitchen floor, a bottle of wine in one hand and a cardboard box of photos torn open in front of her.

But it wasn't familiar. Not to this house. For Alex, this marked the first—the very first—time she had ever sat herself down and reopened the past.

The wine was exceedingly necessary.

"Guess it was kind of all three," she whispered. She took another swig straight off the bottle and studied the photograph. Henry had always insisted on having a disposable camera around, even as technology barreled on ahead of physical photos. She couldn't count the number of camera misfires that were in this sleeve of photos alone—or the number of times she’d looked on in red-eyed exasperation as he took her candid portrait—but she had been so grateful for them when he died, she had nearly caught herself weeping . . . before she had hastily shoved the box into the back of her closet and forced herself to forget about it.

A tear leaked down one cheek. She let it slip along her chin and fall into her lap as she stared at the photo of Henry she held. "I'm so afraid of getting over you," she whispered to the face of her husband, to the smile that would never again grace the rooms of her empty house. "I never thought I would. I thought you were it, Henry, but now . . . what if you're not?"

Her throat hitched on a sob, and she glanced up at the clock on the far wall.

It was late. She didn't know how long she had been sitting here, alone and lost in the past. She stirred and pulled herself to her feet.

She took the photograph—and the wine—with her into the living room and sank down on the couch. She curled up on the cushion Landon used to favor and closed her eyes, losing herself in darkness. A while later, she felt Raphael jump up, arrange himself in the curve of her waist, and purr contentedly to himself. She didn't reach for him, and he didn't complain when the usual strokes weren't forthcoming.

They fell asleep like that, together, their chests rising and falling as one.

When Alex next woke, it was to the sound of her phone blowing up—not actually combusting but vibrating its way across the floor where she had left it beside the box of photos. It had nearly gained the kitchen by now.

She scrubbed her eyes and took a moment to blink herself more fully conscious. Her head was heavy from the wine, although she wasn't drunk any longer, just steadily steamrolling her way toward a killer hangover. How long had she been out for? Long enough to sleep off the effects of the alcohol, at least—but she had started drinking pretty early in the day A glance out the window showed her nothing but a black patch of night.

She was tempted to leave her phone and go right back to sleep. The thought that it might be Landon trying to reach her propelled her off the couch.

Raphael hissed and sprang out of reach as she wheeled around and dropped to her knees on the floor. Alex cursed, cradling her jarred head, and rose unsteadily, managing to retrieve her phone just as it ceased ringing. She thumbed it open and looked down in astonishment.

Twenty missed calls? Twenty? And almost twice as many texts flooded her home screen from various contacts. Panic rose like bile in her throat as she scrolled through them all, one after another. The sick feeling didn't subside even as her read messages began to outpace her unread.

"Oh, my God," she muttered to Raphael—to the lonely, darkened house. She crossed to the television and flipped it on to the local news. She turned the volume up, then bolted out of the room to get changed.

Fire had swept into town.

When Alex arrived on the scene, it looked like every ambulance and available body was already there. She lost herself in the chaos, eyes scanning over the rushing river of heads. She knew from her texts, and from the TV, that Cedar Springs was in the process of evacuating the entire block, although no one within her sphere of information seemed to know yet how fire had gotten this far into town—and taken such an immediate hold.

The apartment building in front of her was on fire. It was a horrifying vision to witness firsthand after seeing the live news coverage, and Alex found herself frozen in place for a moment as she took in the hellish sight. The building still stood, but every window was blacked out and busted open; tongues of flame licked their way out of the empty sockets. Glass littered the ground around the building, like a moat of sharp teeth waiting to bite anyone who might dare to come—or go—from the doomed structure. Firetrucks and firefighters seemed to be everywhere, including crews directing streams of water onto the buildings to either side to keep the fire from spreading.

"Alex!" Cherise was already on the scene and hastening toward her. The older nurse's hair was in complete disarray, and her face was streaked with ash, but her eyes glowed with stern life.

"Cherise!" Alex exclaimed. She caught the older woman by the arms before she could barrel into Alex. "What's going on? What happened? Has the fire reached town?" It seemed impossible that it should have descended on the town already, but how . . .?

"Gas main," Cherise replied grimly. "It was unmarked. Nobody knew it was here until it blew. Come on! I'm in desperate need of someone with a cool head to help me." She gestured toward the coughing, miserable locals lining up for treatment.

Alex took in the grim assemblage, and even as her heart broke, she rolled up the sleeves of the shirt she wore beneath her scrubs. Flecks of swarming ash flew through the air and sparked against her bared skin, but she ignored the stings as she followed after Cherise, duty-bound. She could see that many of the greener nurses were already looking distraught and overwhelmed.

What will we do, she thought, when the real fire gets here?

Maybe it's already arrived.

The ambulances came and went in a constant stream of patients. Alex kept her head down, kept herself focused on the task—on the people—at hand. A blackened teenager sat upright on one of the available stretchers. Alex didn't even have to ask him to widen his eyes as she flashed a light from one pupil to the other. All signs pointed to nothing more pressing than shock. She heard herself speaking to him, a string of standard, comforting words, as she tried to gently ascertain the location of his family. He raised his hand to point. Alex followed the line of his arm . . . and froze.

Beyond the clot of civilians the kid was gesturing toward, she saw the Alaskan volunteers assembled by their borrowed truck. Her eyes ran down the long line of the hose, to the three figures manning its nozzle. Her heart clenched.

She saw Landon pointing, shouting to them, although she couldn't hear his words. She could see another clump of people, strung out in a line, pouring out of the burning building.

She didn't have to hear the context of his words to know what he was about to do.

He was off the hose. He was running toward the fire.

And all she could do was watch.

Please, God, let us make it through this night.